


Cool Us Down

by wednesday



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-14 13:36:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11209158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/pseuds/wednesday
Summary: The unmarked soldiers obscure his view all the way to the gate, but the wind carries loose syllables in a surprisingly familiar voice. The anger in the voice is familiar too.





	Cool Us Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).



Iorweth's been watching the fortress almost a fortnight and he's still unsure what army dwells there and what is their purpose here. They're _dh'oines_ , so obviously they're planning some new atrocity, but more information would make him a great deal happier with the whole situation. Slightly less unhappy, at least.

There are somewhere around four score men there, and something of how they've been building and storing supplies makes Iorweth think they're preparing for still larger numbers. It's disconcerting and he hates everything about it.

At first he suspected Nilfgaard, as the men are strangely efficient in rebuilding the crumbling wreck that stood there up until three moons back. Yet he's seen far too many Nilfgaardians to know no men belonging to the emperor would be so unorganized. It doesn't leave many options to their origin – most likely they're either Redanian or Kaedweni, which is about the same thing these days. The lack of any recognizable flags or standards anywhere easily seen is suspicious, though. He can't imagine them being a band of deserters or bandits either.

They aren't particularly talkative, not any of the times Iorweth's been close enough to listen in—so far he's only gathered they're using the common speech, which tells him nothing much at this point. Not surprising considering the freezing cold weather; Iorweth wouldn't feel much like chatting either, if he had anyone to chat with. As it stands he doesn't, because most of his men are off hiding from the weather in the mountains and the rest are on similar missions elsewhere.

Most of all he wants to find out what the men are doing rebuilding a fortress in the middle of winter and so close to several non-human settlements, followed by burning their new fortress to the ground and getting the fuck away from the freezing cave he's been sleeping in.

 

 

There are patrols, but their times and routes are too unpredictable for Iorweth to risk going too close to the fortress where all trees have been felled. He might be able to kill a few men, but he'd rather not be noticed. Information is sometimes gained easier in secrecy. Torture might yield some result, but he has no good place to do it, as screams carry too well in the cold stillness, nor any way of knowing which of the men might be important and which ones will know nothing. It’s a shame, because every day he spends here, fills him with a bit more hate towards them all.

The giant pine tree he's been hiding in since before sunrise is close to the path leading up to the gate, so he can see rather well when one of the bigger patrols comes back. There's an unusual commotion at the gate and there's definitely one more person than there were a few hours ago when they set out.

From the glimpses he gets, it's another man, his hands tied, and Iorweth's very sure he's seen that exact form before somewhere. The group of unmarked soldiers obscures his view all the way to the very gate, but the wind carries loose syllables in a surprisingly familiar voice. The anger in the voice is equally as familiar to Iorweth.

Well, isn't  _that_ interesting.

 

 

Iorweth spends the next day in turns being amused and considering a reckless, completely insane and unjustifiable rescue. The amusement helps with the urge to just kill the men he's trailing through the forest, especially as he has to leave no trace of his passage in the snow where trees are sparse and make no noise while traveling across brittle frozen branches everywhere else.

He's choosing to never examine why he even comes up with the idea.

It does keep him occupied the next two days, as a sudden snowstorm confines him to his hidden cave. He imagines quite a lot of ridiculous ways he could go about breaking his favorite enemy out of captivity. It passes the time and takes his thoughts off the weather and all the fucking awful things these  _ _dh'oines__  might be planning. There’s a building sense of anticipation swirling in the air and mixing with the frost. Really, nothing can take his mind off the ploughing cold.

His cave is high enough up a cliff wall he can see the fortress from it. It's mere chance he wakes up early enough on he third day to see the dead guard before he disappears completely under an ever increasing layer of snow.

The first rays of the sun barely break through the clouds and snow before Iorweth's leaving the meager comfort and safety of his shelter for the trees.

The howling wind makes every step a small struggle, but at least he doesn't have to be quiet as well as invisible today. He follows a faint trail for some time, the snow already erasing it to the point he can barely tell a man has walked there. It feels like a hunt, a chase that slowly warms his blood with excitement. Metaphorically, because his blood's fucking cold enough to start turning thick. When he finds the end of the trail, everything's so white he almost misses what he's looking for. There in the snow among the trees lies Vernon Roche, unconscious and probably nearing death.

Idly he notices there are old sword marks on the trunk of the oak tree under which Roche has fallen. Probably there since the old fortress was still intact, the crosses long since scabbed over with tree bark and all their makers dead, probably even in the same battles they left for right after leaving their marks on this tree.

An exceptionally fitting grave for Roche.

That won't be happening quite yet, if Iorweth has his say. He first removes the blade from Roche's unmoving hand, fixes it quickly to his own sword, and only then checks for signs of life. There’s some blood, but not enough to kill a man, and a heartbeat, though slow and faint. Iorweth hefts the man up and over his shoulder, and with a practiced surge of contempt starts plotting how to get back without leaving a trail.

 

 

The snow makes the way back to Iorweth's cave a lot more difficult. The cold seeps through his clothes, but he can't quite get back through treetops, not while carrying someone. Well, he could, probably, but it would take so much more time that he doesn't even try. Roche doesn't seem to have much time to spare either, not out in the open. He seems to have lain in the snow long enough before Iorweth found him.

It's not very easy getting someone unconscious up to his shelter, but he manages. Iorweth gets back right in time to see a group of soldiers searching something in the woods in a direction nowhere near where he found Roche. Men are rather useless in the woods, he thinks, especially when starting their search so late. The fortress is a hive of activity too, more so than on any other day, especially during a snowfall. He hopes rather viciously that they all get frostbite and hopefully at least some of the men scouring the nearby woods end up lying in snowbanks themselves.  _ _Dh'oines.__

Iorweth strips Roche down, though there's less to take off than there should be in this weather, and takes account of the injuries. Not that he’s seen the man without a chain-mail in the middle of summer either. It's not so bad, a few nasty bruises and scrapes, a couple of shallow stab wounds. Constellations of older scars, of course. Nothing life threatening, though he might have lost some blood running around with unbound cuts. Not too much in the freezing cold. Probably. The most dangerous is the paleness and the coolness of his skin.

Iorweth binds the cuts on Roche's shoulder and thigh as well as he can with his own fingers stiff and unfeeling, and deposits the man in his own blankets. Through it all he feels a rising tide of glee wash away the annoyance and impatience he’s been feeling constantly for weeks now.

He can't make a fire now; the snow still coming down might obscure the smoke so no one looking from the fortress could see it, but now there's men roaming the woods and Iorweth's not about to risk discovery. He does take off his own coat and armor, secures Roche’s sword and his own weapons safely out of reach and lies down next to the man and covers them both with a hare-skin blanket.

He feels fucking half frozen himself, after a trek trough the calming storm, so he figures Roche must be near death. Possibly Iorweth's warmth might help with that, and if it doesn't, all he'll have lost will be time he would have spent holed up in this cave anyway.

Roche will owe him rather more than any sane man would like to, definitely worlds more than he would. He holds Roche in a lover’s embrace and smiles unkindly—really, he might need to kill the man, but there's always time for that later, like all the times they've met before this. For now he can't wait for Roche to wake up. He's been incredibly bored alone in this cave, on this mission, quite frankly for the whole past year. There's something exciting in being near someone he hates _ _so well__.

 

 

Apparently Iorweth’s not too excited about the possibilities to sleep, because he wakes from a shallow doze some time later when Roche starts violently shivering. A good sign for his chances of surviving the day. Good for Iorweth’s chances of getting all the relevant information without spending another month going insane in a cave, too.

Iorweth’s _finally_  warm, at least as long as he doesn’t get out of the blankets, and Roche seems to be nearing a state where he’ll be able to wake up. He hesitates for only a moment before he happily takes his own shirt off, too. An effective interrogation method if there ever was one.

He has to wait some more, and then Roche makes a soft sound of pain in his sleep, tries to roll over to his side and when Iorweth’s arms stop him, blinks his eyes open. Iorweth does his very best to keep his absolute joy at the situation from showing on his face as Roche stares at him. He keeps staring for a considerable while without any comprehension appearing in his bleary expression. It’s a strange look on him, and he looks much younger this way. Iorweth’s not sure he likes it.

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember. Surely you don’t want me to think I’m not _memorable_ ,” Iorweth says when the silence stretches too long.

Roche startles faintly when Iorweth starts speaking. “This is  _hell,_ ” he says with feeling, yet without the appropriate amount of worry somehow. Almost like he’s joking, like suddenly it’s a thing they do. Like it’s something Vernon Roche does at all. His voice is scratchy and slightly slurred, either from whatever he suffered within the fortress or from his stay in the snow or both. Iorweth can tell he’s trying to take in his situation and probably failing, not awake enough for it.

“With your occupation I don’t know what else you expected,” Iorweth says. “I’m insulted that you’d expect  _me_ to be so careless and incompetent to end up dead as speedily as you, though. Surely you know your mortal lifespan is but a brief moment for the rest of us.”

“Why am I  _here_?” Roche asks angrily, finally some emotion. It’s offset by the way he visibly has to work to keep his eyes open every time he blinks. It ruins his usual hard and serious look.

“You’ll have to be more specific than that, Commander Vernon Roche,” Iorweth says with as much derision as he can manage.

“Why. Am I not- Not dead?” Roche asks to no one in particular. He obviously remembers some of it and seems to be struggling to recall the rest.

“Well,” Iorweth says, “you shouldn’t sleep in strange places, who knows who might come upon you. As it happens, you’re not dead because you have something I want.” He can see the moment Roche notices their state of undress, the way his eyes widen the slightest bit and his hands clench into fists. Pointedly he doesn’t move away or release his embrace at all as Roche’s eyes move across his bare chest, and instead slowly slides one of his hands from the side of Roche’s chest down to his waist. “Feel free to be as difficult about it as you wish.”

He smiles faintly as he watches Roche slowly lose a desperate battle with unconsciousness. Clearly this mission is a _gift_. A gift knife Iorweth really hopes he won’t cut himself on.

 

 


End file.
